


Catch & Release

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Selcouth Timestamps [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Fishing, Fluff, Guilty Cannibal Feelings, M/M, Murder Thoughts, Outdoor Sex, Rutting, Talk of Disembowelment, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:11:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I wish I had known," Hannibal says, a little rueful as he glances towards a clatter of barking further along the river. "I'd not have dressed so well."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"If you had known, you'd not have dressed at all," Will points out. "You'd have laid about in bed bare and seduced me back into it."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch & Release

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by our beloved [Noodle](http://noodletheelephant.tumblr.com/)!

"Could we not just -"

"No."

Hannibal holds his lower lip between his teeth to muffle the hum of want that always rises sinuous as smoke at that word. He watches the dogs chase by him in a river of their own, leather creaking against his shoulder as he adjusts the weight he's holding. His arms burn a little but he remains steady, feet planted right where he was told to stay and wait.

The squeak of rubber raises a brow, and Hannibal's heart rate enough that he licks his lips apart and asks again, "I could simply -"

"These are yours," Will answers, tossing waders to Hannibal's feet.

"Surely not," whispers his boy, paling at the sight of hunter green rubber overlaying his oxfords. He takes a step back to free them, and thins his lips, adjusting his grip of the tackle box he carries and the weight of the bag slung across his chest.

"I suppose should you wish to return home drenched you’re more than welcome to go without," Will tells him, brow raised and smile evident in the corners of his eyes. They had talked about this, once in awhile, when during a late summer conversation tangled in bed, it would be suggested.

Will supposes in that case he did the talking and Hannibal the listening.

Regardless, it is hardly the chore Hannibal expects it to be. Will fishes to relax and ground himself again. He would not offer to take Hannibal here had he thought the experience traumatic.

It is merely amusing to see his beautiful and put-together boy so nervous.

"Dress," Will indicates, gesturing. "Now."

Hannibal works his lips into a small pout, but his eyes twitch narrower in thought. He sets the box to the ground and tugs the bag from over his shoulders, but makes no move for the waders yet. Instead, he folds his arms.

"I could go," Hannibal challenges, attention caught briefly and held by Will stepping into his own pair of the awful things. "I could leave. It's a fine day for a walk, a few hours and I'll be home."

"You could," Will agrees. When he steps closer, his waders creak and Hannibal wrinkles his nose in displeasure. But that flicker of dismay falls away all at once when Will brings his fingers to Hannibal's jaw and clasps his face firmly. "You will not."

"No?"

"No," Will says, pretending not to notice the electric tingle that sparks Hannibal into a shiver. "Because I haven't told you to do so. What did I tell you?"

"Dress," Hannibal whispers, with a great and secret delight. "Now."

"Good boy," Will says, with a gentle stroke of his fingers against Hannibal's face as he lets him go. 

Guiding Hannibal through new things is like breaking in a colt. It has to be done with patience and reassurance and just a little bit of force. He is - he always will be - a stubborn little thing, and Will will always find ways to gently push him.

Hannibal will always go.

Will smiles as Hannibal regards the waders again before, with a deliberately deep breath, as though he is submerging into the water itself, he starts to put them on. Will waits until he is finished, until he stands with legs too far spread and body rigid in displeasure, and then he steps closer to kiss Hannibal softly on the lips.

"Thank you."

Hannibal can't help but smile at this, and though he tries to suppress it, it manifests in the corners of his eyes and in the subtle lean nearer. He hums a little sound when he's kissed again, chaste and sweet, and his shoulders straighten as Will steps away. There are few things that spark his pride as brightly as praise from Will, even if it only comes in reward for putting on a terrible pair of rubber trousers.

"I wish I had known," Hannibal says, a little rueful as he glances towards a clatter of barking further along the river. "I'd not have dressed so well."

"If you had known, you'd not have dressed at all," Will points out. "You'd have laid about in bed bare and seduced me back into it."

Hannibal's preening smile spreads wide, and he doesn't deny the truth of Will's words. Will slips the suspenders of the things over his shoulders, though, and then Hannibal's feathers ruffle once more.

"Am I going to get wet?"

"Only if you fall."

"Am I going to fall?"

Will's eyes narrow in delight and he says nothing more. It does take practice and time to hold balance in the stream, but it is hardly rocket science. He is certain with the grace Hannibal has in everything he does, he will manage admirably.

"You're going to fish."

"Will I catch anything?"

"That depends entirely on your attitude."

"Not on the fish?"

"They can smell fear and indifference."

"Like clients, then," Hannibal muses. "One must affect an interest in order to maintain theirs."

"Using pleasing distractions to draw attention."

"Reeling them in slowly, to allow them to feel as if they have the advantage."

"Ensuring one's hook is sunk deeply so they can't escape."

"And then -" Hannibal doesn't finish the sentence, accepting the dry look from Will and reveling in his own private pleasure at the thoughts that follow. There were many whom he had often imagined gutting, a clean line down the center and glistening viscera bared. A blink returns him to the now, far away from the dark thing he was once becoming, and Will's hand against his cheek settles his eager pulse.

"You'll love it," Will reassures him, and steps away to gather what they will need. A shrill whistle, short and sharp, is enough to bring the dogs back, and then they're off again, familiar with the river and the surrounding banks, enjoying the warm day.

Will regards Hannibal and tilts his head with a smile, taking him in. Tall and beautiful, carrying himself in those silly waders as he does in his bespoke suits. He is truly a stunning creature, and entirely Will’s own. Will bites his lip gently and holds out his hand for the box Hannibal had been carrying, letting his fingers caress Hannibal's before letting him go.

"Consider it an experience," Will tells him, eyes narrowing in delight.

It is that. From the first hiss of dismay like a cat exposed to a bath until the first near fall over slippery rocks, Will catching Hannibal’s arm to keep him upright, Hannibal is genuinely overwhelmed. An uncommon feeling, to be sure, but one with which he attempts to familiarize himself in this rare opportunity. He listens as Will instructs him; he repeats the names of the lures and their intended victims. He mimics the motion to cast and levels a baleful squint at the lure when it plunks into the water only a few feet away.

Hannibal focuses with precision attention on improving his cast, intent already on perfecting it, another unusual skill to add to his list of many. Gradually, though, he settles from his baseline irritation and it soothes, as the water cascades around them and the leaves shudder above the sleeping dogs beneath, seeking cool earth and shade. Whether Hannibal catches anything matters little to him, though given a choice, he would prefer to - with natural talent - catch a very large one with which to impress Will.

But he is just as content to watch the man at his side, his gaze distant along his line and the river beyond, his hair greying just around his temples and glinting silver in the sun. Hannibal watches him with wonder as to how he has acquired such luck as this. As if in response, he can hear Will say that he has earned it, and his smile softens his eyes.

“What?” Will teases him, meeting Hannibal’s eyes just before they turn away again.

“I could not help but be distracted.”

“You’ll miss a tug that way.”

Hannibal’s smile quirks and he tamps it out swiftly, youthfully delighted by the naughty joke he imagines in response. “You’re beautiful in all places and in all ways,” Hannibal tells him, “but especially so, here.”

Will's expressions softens to warmth again, gentle and comfortable, and he adjusts his hold on the rod before turning to Hannibal properly.

"Why?" He asks, hardly a goading for praise so much as the want to allow Hannibal to speak his mind, to let loose words he wants to say.

"You go away," Hannibal says. "When you fish, it's as though you go to another world entirely." He pauses, careful to keep his feet planted steady and carefully in the silty bottom of the river. "You similarly disappear when we scene."

"You are my entire world," Will tells him, smiling. "Every day, but then especially. Every breath you take is my own, every wince and push, every soft sound as you beg and twist, it is a part of me and I allow myself to let its currents take me any which way." He smiles, eyes wrinkling at the corners. "As I do here."

Hannibal makes a small noise, shoulders shifting beneath the suspenders of the waders he wears, rubber creaking softly. Will’s words sing to him, always, they have since the start. Configurations of phrases meant to elicit a certain response, heard then as if they were static but responded to with a dutiful little smile and a forced warmth to his cheeks. But Will’s truth is clear, he speaks in earnest praise hard-earned in spite of Hannibal’s innate stubbornness. His voice wounds so sweetly that Hannibal aches beneath the weight of it, and he breathes a single note of laughter.

“Will you let me move you, then?” Hannibal asks, a youthful plea infusing his words and his crooked, small smile. “Out of the river, please, on the shore or in the grass. It is unfair to keep me at distance when all I wish is to taste your lips against my own.”

Will clicks his tongue and tilts his head to regard his boy. Hannibal is tense but he is not anxious. This isn't enjoyment for him as it is for Will but it is not a torment or a punishment either.

As Will does not understand Hannibal's delight in seeking out new suits, so Hannibal does not understand the quiet of this stream. 

"Sweet, demanding boy," Will chastens him. "Would you like to rephrase your request?"

Even that soft scolding is taken as if it were the snap of the cane or the slap of the belt. Hannibal draws a breath, short, and holds it, brow creased as he plays back his words to seek their flaw and the correct pathway instead to what he wants. When his lips part again, only a sound of surprise comes from them.

Will lifts a brow.

“The line,” Hannibal murmurs, displeased. “It’s being pulled upon.”

Will blinks, turns to look where Hannibal's eyes have settled. His laugh comes bright and surprised, and he sets a hand against Hannibal's shoulder and squeezes, before leaning in to kiss against his cheek.

"A catch," he says. "And you were worried you would get nothing."

"Perhaps the fish have a taste for sarcasm."

"And are as distracted by your beauty as I am," Will grins. "Reel it in."

Hannibal makes another sound, a mix between a laugh and a helpless little whine.

"I -" He swallows. "How?"

Will laughs again, taking a step, practiced in the rushing water, to stand behind Hannibal, his own line directed away so as not to tangle, his free hand at Hannibal's arm to guide him.

"Patiently," he tells him. "Carefully. Firm enough to keep the line taut."

Hannibal allows himself to be guided. How could he do anything else? It is, as ever, more a struggle than he anticipated, but he is fiercely stubborn, too. Spreading his legs, Hannibal plants his heels into the soft sandy bottom of the river. Inch by inch, his resistance tightening, he finds that his opponent begins to yield. Will’s words are warmth against his ear, his body a firm and stalwart wall at Hannibal’s back.

And when the fish finally emerges, sparkling bright, it is so small that Hannibal laughs, bright and boyish, at the sight of it.

“All that,” he sighs, shoulders twitching taut as he lifts the rod and catches the line, “for so very little.”

“It’s enough for one of us,” Will tells him, but Hannibal’s attention is distant as he finally catches the wriggling fish and Will takes the pole from him. In his hands, it seems smaller still, gills gaping and black eyes wide. Its scales are iridescent in the sun and Hannibal imagines for a moment how its innards would glisten more luminous still in the late afternoon soon. He imagines, and with a genuine surprise, finds that the idea hurts him.

“But not enough for both,” he finally says, turning towards Will with careful steps. “Perhaps we should release it. It seems cruel -”

“To catch a fish?”

“To tear it gasping from its home when all it sought was food.”

Will considers the words, the bright flash of empathy that pulses against Hannibal's throat. In his hands, the fish wriggles, struggling still, and Will reaches to carefully work the hook free from its mouth. Fishing is one place he never allows his empathy through. A necessity, instead, is how he sees it. He catches only to eat. He never wastes.

But with a hand careful against Hannibal's own, Will bends to help him lower the fish back to the water. It slips immediately away, a flick of a shimmering tail and it vanishes.

"You feared, once, that circumstances would make you indifferent," Will reminds him softly. "That they would turn you into a monster that you would feed and let grow." A gentle nuzzle against Hannibal's temple and Will kisses the soft skin there. "How could you possibly fear such a fate, when in every way you strive to save lives?"

Hannibal leans into Will, nuzzling in return, the furrows lining his face easing with every kiss laid against him and every breath he takes. “I imagined it,” he admits, “how it would feel to pull it open, and hold its warmth in my hands. I saw it, clearly, I do, often -”

“But you made a choice,” Will reminds him. “And you do, often. We can’t help where our minds wander. We can’t keep lights in every corner. But whether we choose to step closer to that darkness or away from it - that’s what defines us. That’s who we truly are.”

Hannibal looks again to the river, active and peaceful all at once, the sun that shimmers on its surface and the black bottom beneath. There is no sign of the little fish, darted far away now to heal, he hopes, to continue on and live its life. Perhaps he will see it again. Perhaps it has learned that not every kindness offered comes without a catch.

He turns to Will and leans against him, placing a kiss beneath his jaw.

“I love you,” he whispers, before a smile finally lifts beneath his eyes. “I do not think that I love fishing.”

Will laughs, carefree and warm, and shakes his head. He knows. Next time he will bring Hannibal to the river and let him sit on the shore and sketch. He will bring a picnic and watch as Hannibal lays it out for them, gently pushing the more curious of the dogs back who seek to steal a treat.

Next time.

"I love you," Will tells him, laughing again. "And so I shan't take you again."

“Not into the river, perhaps,” Hannibal murmurs. “I will lay bare upon the grass instead, sunning myself, and watching you at peace.”

“I’ll be watching you, then,” grins Will.

“I know.”

Hannibal blinks and eases as Will steps away from him, slow movements in the water, but leading Hannibal back to land. He follows, copying each placement of Will’s feet with his own, until finally he stumbles at the shoreline when the resistance of water must no longer be struggled against. Another laugh, easy, as he catches and rights himself, already peeling out of his waders. He reserves his laugh only for Will, though whether by intent or his own innate restraint, Will doesn’t know. Never when they’re with others does he let it free so readily; never in conversation with another does it appear.

Only for Will. Only ever for Will.

“I’m afraid I’ve left us bereft of dinner,” Hannibal tells him. Letting the wet rubber puddle on the ground, he steps carefully back from them and dusts his trousers straight again. He lifts his eyes and finds Will watching him. Eyes narrow with pleasure, he stands tall with a languid unfurling.

"What would you have made, had we come home with a catch?"

Hannibal swallow, smiles, licks his lips open. "Steamed fish," he says, "with subtle hints of lemon and pepper, thyme, just a small amount of butter and pink Himalayan salt."

"And?" Will asks, stepping from his waders as well, regarding his partner with narrowed eyes.

"Jasmine rice," Hannibal adds. "White pepper to add texture and aroma."

"And?" Will steps closer still, setting a hand to Hannibal's chest, warm and reassuring, delighting in the beating of his heart, quick and sure. Hannibal draws a breath.

"Panna cotta for dessert," he whispers. "Homemade raspberry compote to go atop."

"Then we are hardly bereft," Will tells him.

Hannibal lifts a hand to rest against Will’s cheek. He strokes a thumb through the older man’s scruff and squints, fond. “Going directly to dessert? How decadent.”

His grin is so wide that he can hardly close his lips against Will’s to kiss him. He manages admirably, soft, swift things that deepen with every turn of their mouths together. Here Hannibal finds his peace, as Will did within the river. Pulled close by Will’s arm around his waist, Hannibal curls his arms against Will’s chest and lets himself feel small, safe. Protected and held and kept by the only man to ever capture him, and who in doing so, allowed him freedom.

Hannibal’s fingers curl in Will’s flannel shirt, and when he bends his knees, Will follows. The grass crinkles lightly beneath them as Will lays heavy atop, and the first firm push of their hips together rocks Hannibal’s voice into a moan caught between their kiss. He turns his head aside to avoid the next, squirming when Will kisses his throat instead. Hitching a leg against Will’s hip, he holds him close there and with the long arms that rest over his shoulders.

"Not nearly as decadent as you wanting me on the riverbank," Will murmurs against him, rocking gently down against Hannibal again, delighting in feeling his muscles unfurl from tension one after the other after the other.

Here, he always finds his peace.

Here, they both do.

"Would you have me bare you?" Will asks him, nosing behind his ear. "Spread you wide on the grass, exposed, before I duck my head and eat you out until your limbs shake and your voice breaks and your breathing pulses hot past your lips? Tell me."

Hannibal’s fingers splay and curl, grasping Will’s shirt to free it from the back of his pants. In return, Will presses himself flatter against Hannibal’s body, squishing him and earning a gasping laugh.

“There isn’t anywhere in heaven or on earth I wouldn’t want you,” Hannibal murmurs against Will’s ear, and as Will shivers, Hannibal catches the lobe between his teeth and sucks until Will moans. He is allowed, then, to peel Will’s shirt from him, over his head and off his arms, cast aside into the sun-warm grass. Hannibal too is bared from his sweater and the shirt beneath, all at once, and he arches his hips up to stroke a slow friction between the ridges of their cocks, stiffening for the other.

He needn’t be asked to ask - he can hear the gentle command without words to create it.

“Let me know you here,” Hannibal asks, smiling wicked with his eyes as he sprawls back against the grass. “To make amends for the pardon of our supper.” A pause, and he adds, bending up to kiss Will’s bearded cheek. “Please?”

Will strokes his face, a gentle touch against it before he turns to skim his knuckles down Hannibal's throat instead.

"Here?" he repeats, smiling when Hannibal hums, skirting his own fingers tickling down Will's back. "Here, I think of you," he admits. "Here, I wade into the river and I think of you. Of how the sun falls over your bare back when you sleep in on weekend mornings. It outlines every muscle and shifts with every breath you take, did you know that?"

"No," Hannibal tells him, delighted to listen as his fingers work careful and quick to undo Will’s pants. 

"I think of you when you sing in the shower," Will grins. "Out of tune."

Hannibal’s fingers still and his eyes widen incrementally. “I do not.”

“Oh, you do. Not when you’re humming something, then it’s always pitch-perfect, but -”

“No,” Hannibal corrects him, with a quick downward tug of Will’s zipper. “No but.”

Will laughs and shifts, toes against the ground as Hannibal slides his trousers and underpants down with flattened hands against his hips. They are a tangle, twisting to free themselves of their remaining clothes, shoes and boots toed off and kicked away, until with little hums and spurts of laughter, they find themselves bare. The grass shields them, whispering high all around; there is no one near for miles. Hannibal spans his palms against the sun-warmed stretch of Will’s back and kisses him softly, again and again.

“Bad acoustics,” Hannibal finally decides, smile spreading as Will sucks a kiss against his arching throat. “Perhaps I am too distracted with thoughts of you, ensnared in a bramble of bed-sheets, still snoring as I shower. You always curl into the place where I laid before before you settle again, did you know that?”

"I must have picked it up from the dogs," Will laughs, gentle and quiet. "It's always warm when you get up, I like to nuzzle in against it."

"Terrible."

"Enamored," Will corrects with a snort. "In love. Bloody romantic."

"You are that."

Will presses close, and with a foot hooked against Hannibal's thigh, he turns them so Hannibal is on top, the sun warm against his golden hair and flushed cheeks. Will settles to watch him, hands on Hannibal's thighs.

"And you are beautiful," he tells him.

Hannibal’s smile widens and he arches, head back and face towards the sun, shoulders curving down to a languid shove of his hips against the man beneath him. He kneads catlike against Will’s chest, stroking over what little downy hair is there, teasing fingernails across his nipples.

“Even out of tune?” he asks.

“Especially then. You’d never dare let anyone else hear it.”

“I’m not certain I intended for you to hear it,” Hannibal grins. He turns aside, prim even here with grass bleeding green across his knees and dirt smudging his skin. With a discreet dollop of spit in his hand, he rises over Will and reaches back to stroke him damp before rounding his hips to sink back slowly and with a wince. And then he stops, scarcely breached and already breathless, and asks, softly, “May I?”

Will swallows, watches the way Hannibal holds himself poised. Soon his thighs will tremble, in the position he holds. Soon his breathing will grow erratic as he tries to hold himself obediently still. Will sighs, slow and deliberate, and licks his lips.

"Slow," he says, setting his hands to Hannibal's hips. "Slow and long, feel every inch as you sink down and push up again."

It’s as much to stop Hannibal from hurting himself as to tease out their pleasure. His enthusiasm knows little bounds beyond the ones Will sets for him; for all his practiced restraint, he is - between them - a creature unbound. Less for his enjoyment of sex, much as he does, than for his desire to be as close to Will as quickly as possible.

The gentle restriction softens Hannibal’s features, throat clicking as he swallows before that too loosens with a sigh. His lashes drape long across sun-pinked cheeks, and holding Will’s cock in place, Hannibal begins to lower himself. Twitches of strain give way to flickers of pleasure, an ebb and flow of focus and release. He loosens his body and savors every thickening inch he takes inside himself, familiar with the depth and width of the man for whom he has forsaken all others.

It is ecstatic, akin to the transcendent bliss born of meditation.

Hannibal whispers that he loves him as he finally settles to the base, sweat glistening on his brow.

Will soothes him, voice low, like a growl of pleasure seeing Hannibal above him. His legs are spread, his cock curved towards his stomach, tip peeking from the foreskin. Will leans up, much as he can, and kisses the warm hair on Hannibal’s chest, nuzzling into it.

"I love you," he breathes. "My beautiful boy, I will never stop."

Hands settle comfortably against the base of Hannibal’s back and hold him closer, arch his back, and with a soft hum, Will allows him to move again.

It is a slow lovemaking, attention paid to every shiver and gasp. Will remembers the first time they had shared this intimacy, when merely fucking was not enough anymore and this, this called to them and tugged against their skin. Will remembers reassuring his boy that he wanted him, in every way, that he was not dirty, that he was not damaged or broken or sick. He was beautiful. And Will loved him.

He loves him still, every day and unconditionally. From that fearful boy, trembling tearful and whispering that he didn’t want to hurt Will, he has grown into a man far beyond what Will even imagined. Proud and headstrong, clever and beautiful. Unafraid of himself or the love they share together, and fearless to let Will guide him when he needs or desires it. Hannibal arches elegant and sighs a laugh towards the sky as he spirals his hips to feel Will inside him, to know again every inch of him.

Hannibal knows to whom he owes his life, his achievements, his successes. He knows to whom he owes the gentle heart still beating free of its old shackles within. Will would tell him - he does, often - that it is all Hannibal’s own doing, but Hannibal knows the truth of it. He would have been broken. He would have been sick. Inevitable entropy in a choice of work that cannot exist without the slow decimation of those who perform it. Will saved him, again and again, from himself and others, from the ghosts that whispered to him late at night. And Hannibal loved him.

He loves him still.

He bends forward against Will’s chest, sweat slick between them, and kisses him deeply, parting his lips to seek out the taste of his tongue as his body finds a steady rhythm to pull Will’s pleasure from him. A brush against his prostate makes him laugh, and Will laughs when Hannibal does, and Hannibal grins at him before nuzzling against his throat to hide it.

“I will be sore for days,” Hannibal promises him. “Every time I stretch or shift or even breathe, I will feel you just like this.”

"Good," Will's smile tickles against Hannibal’s hair and he holds him closer, arms wrapped around broad shoulders. He lies back and takes Hannibal with him, and allows him to choose the pace of this, hips shifting up only to accommodate, just marveling in silence over this incredible man that is entirely his.

"You know you sing when you make breakfast as well?" Will tells him. "In Lithuanian. It's why Buster is always at your feet, it's the language you use only for him."

Hannibal blinks, gentle surprise, and a quiet joy narrows his eyes. “I thought he was only seeking handouts.”

“That too,” Will laughs. “What do you talk about with him?”

Hannibal clucks his tongue and grins, gasping as a twist shimmers sparks across his skin again. He reaches between them to stroke himself, lazy curls of his wrist. “His greed. His insatiable appetite for socks left unattended. You, and how very handsome you are. I cannot say if he agrees,” he murmurs, delighted.

"Buster Graham is a difficult individual to be sure," Will says, voice tightening as he feels Hannibal clench against him, he parts his lips and moans, low and short, as he watches Hannibal touch himself. "But it is a relief that you find me handsome."

"I'm sure it is, quite," Hannibal agrees, and with a soft sound relents and allows Will’s hand to replace his own in stroking him. "I love you."

"I love you," Will tells him, bending Hannibal down to kiss him again, over the sweaty skin of his brow, against his cheek, against parted lips. Hannibal pants quick little breaths against Will’s cheek as he rocks forwards and back on him, against him, taking him deep and then sliding high to thrust into Will’s hand. His knees spread against the soil; his toes curl. He swallows dry and when he cannot manage a kiss merely brushes his lips against Will’s beard and breathes against him instead.

“Let me cook for you tonight,” Hannibal whispers, voice cracking sweetly and settling to a moan as he trembles beneath the strain of his own building climax. “Let me - let me wash the dogs and you, let me serve you -”

Will hushes him but it is not a denial. There are days where all Hannibal wants is to be used. Not sexually, but as a man who can do anything he is told. Some weekends he cooks and cleans, tends to Will's every need, finds his reward in trembling on all fours as a footstool for Will in the evening.

Will knows that one of Hannibal's most exquisite releases comes in being useful in the most blatant and mundane way possible.

"Sink back," Will whispers to him, waits until Hannibal finds that place, the spot where his prostate is pressed against and stimulated. "Hold still for me.” Keeping his eyes on Hannibal, Will draws back the foreskin to thumb against the dripping slit of his cock. "Hold still."

Hannibal’s breath is lost to him, sparse gasps, caught between parted lips. Will feels enormous within him, every involuntary pulse of his body stimulating further the sensitive place that Will’s cock pushes against. The invasive, gentle press against his cock dizzies him to a curse. Hannibal holds himself still but for the shaking, trembling tremors he can’t stop. He does not innately desire sex, but that does not mean he cannot feel its pleasure flood him and overwhelm well-honed senses to the point of near intolerability.

“A little more,” Will tells him, and a weak whimper aches from Hannibal’s throat, drifting across dry lips. “Just a little more for me.”

Hannibal draws a breath to steady himself, but it is as thunder before the strike of lightning. His synapses fray, his eyes roll back, and his fingernails dig as his orgasm spatters thick and hot against Will’s thumb. Copious come, spraying thick where Will pushes against the head of his cock, bursts free from the pressure-point against which Will’s cock twitches inside. He chokes back a moan but the opening of his mouth releases it, quaking where he sits perched, uncontrollable in the sounds he makes until he finally whispers, “I’m sorry, I tried, Will, god, I love you -”

"You are perfect," Will whispers, watching him with hooded eyes. He knows Hannibal's limits, he knows how to push to make those limits hurt or to make them a high so great Hannibal can barely breathe for it. Limits pushed and overcome are never a punishment, nor is Hannibal ever punished for breaking sooner than demanded.

They learn, together, this way.

"You are perfect," Will repeats, kissing Hannibal as he, too, loses himself to sensation entirely, filling Hannibal with every pulse and push of his cock against him. They rest, then, spent and sated and exhausted, as Will caresses Hannibal’s hair, soothes the shivers from his back.

"When we get home, you will start dinner," Will tells him softly. "Rice cooks a long while. In that time, you will help me bathe, and wash yourself. You may not wear anything for the rest of the evening. I will let the dogs out before bed. You will remain bare."

The touch, the closeness, but most of all the words ease Hannibal’s heart to resting. He nods, he verbalizes his whispered _yes_. He will do as Will asks of him because it gives him pleasure and purpose to do so. He will do more, if he can get away with it, because it brings Will pleasure in turn. It is in those gentle instructions that Hannibal finds his afterglow, even when the shuddering aftershocks of physical climax recede. To be trusted with another’s expectation is a responsibility, but to meet and exceed them is an honor.

“Not even an apron?” Hannibal teases, tucking his arms between them to make himself small in Will’s arms.

"Not even an apron," Will tells him, wrapping his arms around Hannibal to hold him safe. "Once you have made dinner, we will dine together. You may have a glass of wine, no more than one. Then you will wash the dishes and set our food into the fridge for the evening. You will feed the dogs."

"Yes."

Will smiles, nuzzling against Hannibal's hair. "Then I wish to read," he continues. "In bed, I think, and you will bend over me to provide your back to rest my book on."

Hannibal moans, as much delight infusing his low rumble as when they were making love. More so, perhaps, resonant and deep, eased towards a familiar and soothing white noise by knowing that he is useful, he is skilled, and he is wanted. Whether as a lover or as a friend, as a chef or as a table, it hardly matters so much as being shown that he is necessary and vital to Will.

“May I sleep, when I do?” he asks, and though Will knows that Hannibal would not allow himself to do so, he accepts the teasing probe with a hum.

“No,” he answers, squeezing Hannibal closer when he shivers and tilting his head to regard the peace that’s come over his boy. “You may close your eyes, but I will have you awake. You can ask, when you are ready, to sleep.”

Hannibal grins, drowsy from the sex and sun and submission washing against him like the tide. He tucks his nose against Will’s throat and breathes out long against him. He imagines the brush of fingers against the backs of his thighs, stroking absently as Will reads. The closeness of their bodies trapping warmth between, the hum that will fill him and ease his mind to Zen-like silence.

“You are perfect,” Hannibal tells him, wriggling as if he might press closer still and be subsumed as entirely by Will’s form as he is his mind and heart and words. “Bright and handsome Will. I do not deserve -” A single note from Will quiets him, and Hannibal begins again. “I am fortunate to have you, beyond measure.”

Will accepts this with a lazy nuzzle and a warm smile, and reaches to gather his coat - well worn and well loved leather. He spreads it on the grass, rolling gently to press Hannibal against it. Then he stretches like a cat, hips up and back bent, before crawling to spoon up behind Hannibal properly.

"I am fortunate," he whispers. "And will spend every day reminding you how much you mean to me."

Hannibal settles and sighs, drowsy here, before sighing and trying to free himself to get up.

"No."

"But dinner -"

"Can wait several hours more," Will points out, seeking with his free hand for Hannibal’s coat next to drape over them both. "And we can enjoy a nap by the river."

“We’ll be sunburnt,” Hannibal tells him, mischievous. Even as he protests, he wriggles closer to Will against his back, hooking his foot between Will’s heels, lacing their fingers together where Will wraps an arm around his chest.

“A little,” Will agrees against Hannibal’s shoulder. “Good thing my partner is a doctor.”

Hannibal breathes out his delight in a sigh, turning his head to accept a nuzzle against his cheek. “Aloe vera,” he murmurs, eyes closed as he smiles. “Applied liberally.”

“You will.”

“I will,” says Hannibal. “Everything you ask of me. Everything you tell me. Everything that allows me to show how much I love you, I will.”


End file.
